A Raindrop Falling Into The Ocean
by AriesOrion
Summary: Protection, they whisper, a cacophony of voices making the prayer nearly inaudible. Their prayers repeating generation after generation, and in the nearly simmering air around them, something stirs. (Human belief is powerful, their potential unlimited. So they pray and wish, and create.)


A Raindrop Falling Into The Ocean

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 **Summary** : _Protection_ , they whisper, a cacophony of voices making the prayer nearly inaudible. Their prayers repeating generation after generation, and in the nearly simmering air around them, something _stirs_.

(Human belief is powerful, their potential unlimited. So they pray and wish, and _create_.)

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Parings: eventual Chuck/OC

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 _Prologue_

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Belief is a powerful force.

It drives people forward, one step at a time, because they _believe_ that doing so will better their lives.

There is love, because people _believe_ that warm fuzzy feeling in the chest, the desperate care shown to those one professes those feelings towards – is that so-called emotion.

There is life, because people believe they breathe, one lungful of air at a time, eating and living and _dying_.

A constant circle.

They believe they exist.

So they do.

(God gave humans free-will. Endless _potential_. So much raw power, unyielding potential, all embodied in the small word: _Belief._ )

{1}

[900 B.C.]

Quiet whispers filled the sir, rising and falling – a constant noise witnessed by the gentle breeze. Scarcely a hundred people caused this strange phenomenon, skin dark and mostly exposed, coarse leather covering their privates and decorations made of animal bones a stark contrast.

Dozens of eyes were directed at a crude chalice on a small on a small stone pedestal, intricate symbols carved into metal and stone, a never ending stream of crosses and winding circles.

A man much older than the rest stepped forward, his voice coarse and quiet as he spoke, yet his voice echoed loudly like thunder, the surroundings suddenly still as if the whole world was listening.

A breathless chant was soiling from the cracked lips, haunting in the deathly silence. The words as clear as they were unintelligible, leaving the listener dazed and confused, as if a haze was suddenly in front of their eyes.

As the chant slowly ebbed, and the previous momentary silence returned, the old man grabbed a sharp stone, edges ragged, and with a seemingly long practiced motion, nicked his left thumb, seven crimson drops spilling into the chalice agonizingly slow – adding to the dark dry substance already present.

The old man dropped to his knees in front of the chalice, pressing his forehead into the ground, the very picture of piousness.

The dozens of people echoing his actions like a shadow.

Three children – two boys, and one girl – were nudged forth by the adults near them, all of them seeming especially clean on the occasion, dust-free and with scrubbed skin – before repeating the old man's actions, the blood a small puddle, rippling with every added blood.

Protection, they prayed as they bowed their heads with desperate pride. Protection, the word spilling helplessly from their lips.

(Times were desperate, food and water scarce, and predators lurking in the very darkness.

Protection, they whispered and something _stirred_.)

{2}

Creation is a process difficult to conceive – a natural phenomenon between a male and a female yet still all the more unfathomable for it.

Where creation is named the beginning, belief is the _key_.

Because belief _creates_.

A small part of something, less than a fraction of an idea observed the ritual.

Protection.

The word echoing hauntingly. Connecting it – this small idea – to the liquid blood in the chalice, the dozen of people who had already bled for their wishes.

As all heads were bowed in devotion, it echoed the word.

Protection.

The blood rippled – unnoticed by anyone.

{3}

Time passed.

First a year, then a decade stretching into more than a century.

Every year, more blood was spilled in the chalice, more prayers were uttered, a myriad of hopes expressed.

The idea took root.

Its power grew, along with its limited understanding.

Goddess, they called it – protector of their tribe; in hushed awe filled whispers.

Protection, they prayed for, images filling its head – of predators and prey, crops and draughts, mothers dying as their offspring fail to take the first breath.

It was 789 B.C. – the air dry and hot, the ground barren and cracked.

A draught, it knew.

Protection, they yearned for.

Clouds filled the previously azure sky, darkening with every second.

(For the next dozen of days, it does not stop raining – the liquid spilling forth endlessly.)

Grateful murmurs filled its mind as the small tribe was filled with hope for their crops where before had been none.

Childish laughter filled the small village – a small collection of mud and stone huts surrounding the stone altar – and it was satisfied.

It had _protected_.

{4}

Awareness was a strange concept for the entity.

With the passage of time came understanding. It knew that it was connected – was supposed to protect – to those whose blood rested in the chalice.

It was what those puzzlingly corporal beings called a _purpose_.

Like it was the man's purpose to hunt and provide while the woman cared for the homes and the people.

It was content to watch.

Observe those beings live and suffer and thrive and _die_. It didn't understand the concept of death very well. For it somehow knew that it would not cease existing with the passing of time.

But, it found joy in making those beings laugh, their happiness so bright in its presence. It learned when to bring forth rain to ensure that the crops didn't wilt how to ward off sickness and sometimes even death.

Goddesss, they still called her. Of protection. Of the very clouds and rain. Of fertility and sickness.

It still grew. Its power and presence growing stronger with every prayer and every drop of blood.

And as it watched over the process of delivering new life to this boundless earth – the tender expression in the female's face as she holds her son for the first time – a name spilling forth as effortlessly as breathing – it wondered.

It knew this boy would be a hunter, but it would also be a being with a _name_.

It realized that it was a protector, but what else was it?

It didn't know.

(It realizes in that very moment, that for all its growing strength – it yearns for more than this role it has assumed many years ago.)

But it is only a dozen years later, that it finally acted upon that desire.

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A/N Well this is just a small idea that has been buzzing in my ears for the better part of the weak, so I eventually gave up and just wrote it down.

I just always find it a shame that so much is focused on the Winchesters that authors tend to ignore the possibilities this world offers.

So, I decided to write about the life of a pagan god, though it (she) will be a bit different ;)

Enjoy!

AriesOrion


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